


Tie [taɪ]

by LupusScintilla (inkandblade), Toxin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Alive Hales, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, BDSM themes, Courting Rituals, Cultural Conventions, Dirty Talk, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Picture Fic, Pre-Slash, SterekReverseBang, SterekReverseBang 2017, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 01:52:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11048838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandblade/pseuds/LupusScintilla, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toxin/pseuds/Toxin
Summary: Unable to talk his way out of attending the Wordsmith's Masquerade, Derek thinks he'll have to suffer through in silence. Luckily, someone else is there to do the talking for him.





	Tie [taɪ]

 

Derek stepped back against the wall. He wanted to be invisible, wanted to hide himself behind more than the thin mask he was wearing, wanted to disappear. None of those things were going to happen, though, not tonight. If he left before midnight there’d be hell to pay.

Well, if he left alone before midnight.

He had tried to tell his mother that he didn’t want to come, not this year. She’d predictably nixed that idea before it had even managed to say it. The smidgen of a growl she’d added at the end of her sentence had meant that if he disobeyed—if he didn’t make an appearance—he’d be going against a direct Pack Alpha order. Derek didn’t have the gumption, gall, or mettle to defy her outright.

He’d left it alone, considered all his options, and eventually settled for a last-minute, and hopefully under-the-radar, tactic. He’d dressed himself in the indigo tuxedo, gold mask, and other affectations that had been delivered to his apartment, then hid a sapphire-colored bow tie in his pocket so he could swap it out with the attention-grabbing crimson one tradition said he was supposed wear.

If Derek had to suffer through the Wordworkers’ Annual Ball, he’d at least feign not being single.

So, now, twenty minutes after they’d arrived at the ball as a family, and standing tall against the wall near the exit to the bathrooms, Derek slipped his hand into his inside pocket. He’d practiced swapping out his tie without the aid of a mirror at home. He could be out of the great hall, changed, and back in less time than it would take most people to actually use the facilities to take a piss.

And yet, his pocket was empty. He took his hand out and put it back in, just in case reality might have changed in the moment or two in between. Unsurprisingly, it had not. He slumped against the wall now, and looked out on the sea of well-dressed people in the hall. His mother looked back, Alpha eyes glowing. She waved a small, blue, soft looking thing at him for a moment before slipping it into her beaded clutch. Then she smiled at him before turning to speak to someone Derek didn’t recognize.

“You didn’t think that would actually work, did you, little brother?” Laura sounded smug and sympathetic at the same time as she joined him leaning against the wall. Her tone was almost as infuriating as realizing his plans to blend into the I-don’t-need-a-date crowd had been summarily thwarted.

He kept his voice low as he answered, hoping that at least his mother wouldn’t be able to hear his mortification, even if she could see it written over his face from across the room. “I had hoped it might, yes.”

“And it might have, if I’d not already tried it a decade ago, dear nephew.” Peter actually almost sounded bashful. Derek turned to look at him, and could see a slight tinge of embarrassment across the tops of his uncle’s cheeks, disappearing up under the gaudy sequined mask he was wearing. “Your mother’s fervor over Mates meaning stability for the Pack hadn’t yet made itself abundantly clear at that stage, however, and I made the error of placing the bow tie in my outer pocket. She caught me easily. Since then, she’s performed a surreptitious full body check on anyone single who’s coming to the Ball. Think about that a moment: an instantly recognizable and highly esteemed member of the Echelon, and she perfected the art of the pick-pocket just to make sure we’d all get laid on the regular.”

Laura laughed and nodded as she grabbed a glass of sparkling-something from a waiter who was passing. “My last year on the market, I tried my best to make Mom uncomfortable. I filled my handbag with flavored lube and condoms, nipple clamps, and a small, jeweled butt-plug.” Derek paled at the thought of his sister buying such things, then reconsidered and paled even further at the thought of his mother inspecting such things. Laura laughed again, this time at his expression, then lowered her voice a little as she said, “Mom told me she was glad I was being responsible about contraception and lubrication. Then she assured me that, with my skills as a beat-poet, surely I’d find someone who’d appreciate that I embraced my Alpha-self in the boudoir.” She snorted at the memory. “What a waste of eighty-five bucks that lot turned out to be.”

Peter looked as if he was about to ask about the nipple-clamps and butt-plug, but thankfully Cora appeared next to them. And, as she’d apparently heard at least the last part of the conversation, had no hesitation in giving their uncle one of her patented stink-eyes. She stared him down until he relented and sipped on his glass of red wine.

“It’s just a bow tie, Derek,” Cora grumbled. “She could have demanded you wear an entire suit in red.” Of course, Cora looked particularly stunning in the carmine slip dress she was bemoaning, not that any of them would dare mention it. The glittering black lace mask she had on was elegant, and highlighted the air of sophistication her burgundy painted lips added to the outfit. Anyone would be happy to have her, and well, she was truly interested in finding a match. She’d been to three mixed balls this year alone, and had even ended up romancing a young Healerhand for a few months. They’d ended their affair amicably a few weeks ago, and now Cora was on the hunt again.

Derek muttered, “At least you’re vaguely interested in Courting, Cora.”

“And you might be too, if you’d deign to de-stowe your head from your derrière, Derek,” she huffed. “I think I’ll go find someone who actually wants-to-talk to talk to.” She said the last with a lilt and rhythm to be envied.

Derek gritted his teeth, but didn’t let himself respond. He was too angry to do much more than growl, and it would be beyond embarrassing to come out with something less than a witty riposte in the middle of a ballroom full of Wordworkers.

“Breathe, Derek,” Laura whispered, “in and out, that’s it. For someone who doesn’t want to be wearing red you’re certainly turning on a good show with your eyes, baby brother.”

Derek let himself growl at that, but deep in his throat. “I wish she’d simply let it be.”

“Are you speaking of your sister or mine, nephew?” Peter asked. It was difficult to see beneath the mask, but Derek was sure his uncle had one of his eyebrows arched elegantly.

“Both, either. All of the above,” Derek hedged.

Damn the ball, designed so they could mix and mingle with their own Echelon. Damn the masks designed to highlight the fact that they were there to speak and listen rather than look and leer. And damn the Gods and Moon that had made the Hales a Werewolf family of Wordworkers. Why couldn’t they have been Metalmakers or Stonemasons so that they could at least use their physical strength? Indeed, why not Greenhearts so they could commune with their beast-selves and work and breathe the air with the plants?

It wasn’t that Derek disliked being what he was. He loved words: spoken, written, sung aloud. He lived to consume tale and verse and essay. He was lucky to be part of a family that published and created so prolifically. He was lucky to have found his calling with a double-ended, red and blue pencil in his editing hand. But, still.

He couldn’t spin yarns to hold the fascination of a room like Peter. He couldn’t produce words like taffy to cut and stretch and spin out of control like Laura. Cora’s lyrics brought audiences to tears, and his parents’ words did the same to politicians and lawmakers. It was common knowledge that Derek was the family failure, doomed to cut and scrape at others’ miniscule errors in the hope that he might contribute even a stroke of meaning to someone else’s work.

Being here, now, in a room full of people who spoke as easily as they breathed, it was pointless. He couldn’t even do them the honor of listening well. The last time he tried to do that, the last time he’d stepped beyond the safety of his domain and opened his ears and his heart and let the words find his soul, she’d almost burned their house to the ground. And, for once in Derek’s life, he wasn’t simply using a figure of speech.

How was he supposed to woo a Wordworker when he was afraid to open either his Mouth or his Ears?

“You’re thinking too hard, Derek,” Laura said as she snagged herself another drink, and passed one to him. He wrinkled his nose at her. “Don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. You’re more than good enough for any other Wordworker here, and we all know it even if you don’t. Take the drink,” she waved it at him until he conceded. “Sip it slowly and enjoy listening. Our Erica will be on stage soon.”

Laura wandered off towards her husband, and Peter followed. Derek decided all he could do was lean against the wall a little more, and hoped that would make him look prickly, unapproachable, sharp-edged, and unpleasant. There was a spiky potted palm of some kind a few feet away; he hoped it might lend its aesthetic to him if he stood close enough. He headed towards it, putting yards between himself and the walkway to the bathrooms. Here it would be harder for anyone who might consider speaking to him; they’d have to do more than simply catch him on their way to-or-fro.

Derek sipped slowly and waited, and pointedly did not let himself look at his phone to see how much longer it would be before Erica held the microphone. He was just about to give in when he heard a laugh from across the room that drew his eyebrows in and his attention in its direction.  

“You’re an ass, Jackson. What’s the expression? If you can’t say something nice, then…” the owner was a voice Derek wasn’t familiar with.

He couldn’t see the voice’s owner through the crowd, and they were almost all the way across the room.

“Platitudes, Stiles? That’s patently pathetic even for you.”

That voice, however, Derek did know. He’d unfortunately come across it, and its owner, the younger Whittemore, at his mother’s workplace and with some of the work Laura sometimes passed his way.

“You’re still seething over the grade his editing pen landed you in his sister’s poetry class, Jax. Perhaps you should stick to the dry and crackling word, like your father?” Derek thought that voice belonged to the younger of the two Lahey sons. Their father was the worst kind of meat-headed Metalmaker, but the boys had both inherited their mother’s sweeter tongue.

“I could not care less about the supposed skill of a whispering Wordworker Wolf that can’t bring himself to speak above a murmur in public, Isaac. I simply don’t think that someone who can’t use words should be judging others that can.”

“The man is wicked with a red and blue-pencil, Jax, and you got the extra-sharpened end of his. He’s brutal with a slashed line, but it’s worth it,” Lahey said.

“Oh!” That was the first voice come back again, followed by the same laugh that had drawn Derek’s attention in the beginning. “Now I see. Jax, I thought more of you! Are you actually sore because a wicked Wolf edited you into oblivion, or is it about his mother whipping your father into a frenzy and then letting him fall flat on his proverbial face at that last debate? We are talking about Derek Hale, yes?” There was another sound, somewhere between a huff of laughter an actual guffaw. “Regardless, his reputation precedes him all in the right ways as far as I’m concerned. He’s a remarkably attractive prospect.” The guy’s voice was rich and throaty, and full of something that seemed just about ready to burst out and bite.

Then there was a lower laugh, something less full, less kind.

“You just want at his pencil, Stilinski.”

“I would let him edit me any day, Whittemore.”

Derek shivered. That was, well. That name, Stilinski, was unusual. It was shared with the Sheriff, as far as Derek knew. But why a Shieldbearer's son would be at a Wordworker’s ball he did not know.

Derek snagged another drink when a waiter offered, and barely stopped himself from downing it in one go. The conversation he’d just heard hadn’t been pretty, in any way. There’d been no spontaneous prose, barely a hint of artful alliteration as ornament, and not a note of the pompous use of purposefully purple pontification that Derek was used to hearing from the older Whittemore and his ilk. Just three young men arguing a point. One attacking Derek, one defending his abilities and one, he wasn’t quite sure what the last one had been doing. Derek’s cheeks burned at the thought.

And then the lights went down, and someone on stage made the introduction, and Erica was singing Cora’s lyrics. Erica, as always, was poised and potent. Her voice was rich and smooth and tempting. The whole room was listening. Cora’s words floated off Erica’s tongue in a way that gave them an extra layer of meaning and nuance and purpose. Derek was glad that his sister had found someone worthy of singing her thoughts.

Derek couldn’t help but feel sucked in by the spectacle. He stepped out from the wall, drawn by the pull of the performance. He joined in the quiet rumbling of the sounds of admiration once the three songs were done. His listened with pride to the words of praise people were heaping on his sister’s poetry, and his Packmate’s presentation of them, for the three or four minutes it took the accolade-applause to quieten.

He didn’t realize that he’d stepped so far out from the sanctuary of the wall until there was a voice in his ear.

“Your sister’s lyrics are wonderful, and your Packmate’s voice is close to perfection, Derek Hale.”

That was, Derek thought, Stiles Stilinski. He’d only heard the voice tonight, but it wasn’t one he’d easily forget. The man must have moved during the performance, too. Even so, it was a long way to drift, clear across a large room in only three songs. Stilinski had traversed the width of the great hall during the performance without causing a commotion. He’d likely come with a goal.

Derek swallowed the thought that he was surely the man’s target. He had no desire to become another’s patsy, or worse, a plaything to be paraded for his looks. He might be a weak Wordworker, but he was one still; he did not like being forced to wear a mask, but he appreciated what they stood for.

“On behalf of my Pack, I thank you for your kind words,” Derek answered almost automatically. He wanted to turn, but it seemed that Stilinski was too close for that to happen without Derek either stepping away or brushing up against the man.

“And it is an honor to give them to a member of such a skilled and esteemed family and Pack.” Stilinski paused a moment, leaning a little closer to Derek’s back, possibly attempting to keep Derek from turning, though why that would be, Derek wasn’t sure. Stilinski said, “my mother was a Wordworker, a Storyteller of some merit, but my father is a Shieldbearer. She died when I was young, and although he tried, my dad wasn’t fully able to help me with my calling. This is the first time I’ve attended a ball amongst only my own Echelon.”

He was indeed the son of the Sheriff, then. Derek knew some of the family’s tale, and this man’s mother had indeed been skilled.

Stilinski sounded so much less certain now than he had when speaking to his friends, but his speech was still deep and rich and heavy. Derek wanted to hear more, but he also wanted to face the man speaking to him. He half-stepped to the side so that he could twist, but found that his conversation partner had done the same. Stilinski was quick on his feet, that was undeniable.

“Are you truly a Wordworker, Stiles Stilinski? You moved across the room without anyone noting it and now you’re guessing my movements before I make them. Most of us are hardly so deft on our feet.” Derek huffed as he stepped again, and Stilinski did so too, staying firmly out of sight.

“Unless they are Werewolves of course.” Stilinski chuckled. “But, as I said, my father is a Shieldbearer. To know your adversary’s next move in combat is to live to fight again.” His voice had dropped in volume and tone. There was no hesitation now, but none of the playful lilt Derek had heard when the man had been bantering with his peers. There was something else, something enticing.

“Is this combat, then, Stilinski? Have you come across the wide and dangerous banquet hall to defeat me?” Derek smiled despite himself, even if the other man could not see it. Derek could do confrontation, especially if he was not looking his challenger in the eye. It was like the flick of the blue-pencil, and a slice with the red. This felt more a little more personal though, more intimate, more private. It was a little more fun.

“Oh no, Derek Hale. I’ve no weapon with me but my mouth, and I’d not attempt to clash wit with a man of your breeding or reputation. There are tales of the terror you strike into the hearts of our fellow Wordworkers with your puckish pencil. You’re a man to be feared and admired.” Stilinski shifted closer again, his words caressing the back of Derek’s neck, creeping over his collar and into his hair. “And I do admire you.”

Derek swallowed. There was no malice in the words, no lie in his pulse or enmity in the man’s scent. “But you won’t face me?”

“I’m,” Stilinski started then stopped. He breathed out again and cautiously laid one hand lightly on Derek’s forearm, paused a moment for permission, and then guided them both back to relative seclusion behind the fronds of the potted palm. “I’m not sure I can and do what I want to if you’re looking me in the eye.” That was the sound of trepidation.

Derek relaxed a little. “And tell me, Stiles Stilinski, Wordworker and son of a Shieldbearer, what is it that you want to do?”

“You’ll let me tell you?” He sounded more than keen, almost pleading. “You’ll give me your Ear so that I can try to spin a tale that you’ll keep wanting to listen to? You can smell my intent, yes? And you can hear in my heartbeat that I’m telling no lie when I say I mean you no harm?” There was still a slight worry in his throat. “I’m not abhorrent to your nose?” His voice was warm and deep.

Stilinski was not, any way, abhorrent to Derek’s sense of smell. He didn’t think he could bring himself to speak of that to a stranger, however, no matter how enchanting and alluring the man’s scent.

“I can sense no hostility in your intent. So, I will try my best to give you my ear.” Derek wasn’t sure what would come of it, but he would, at the very least, earn something to tell his dear Pack Alpha mother about an attempted seduction. She would be thrilled.

Stilinski sucked in a sharp breath, and he seemed to grow a little in size behind Derek, his shoulders standing a little taller, his chest feeling stronger against Derek’s back. The physical contact was diverting, distracting, delighting. It was flustering to have something pull his attention away from the words.

“Then, with your permission, Derek Hale, allow me to provide us with a level of privacy that these lovely potted plants do not bestow.”

Derek nodded, and one of Stilinski’s hands slid onto Derek’s hip. He watched as the other one—long fingers and a starched, not-white shirt cuff—was lifted in front of them, palm up. In the blink of an eye a tiny storm of what looked to be printed words, lifted from the page, swirled upon Stilinski’s skin; a tiny twister of type.

Derek’s lungs stilled, and then relented so he could speak. “What is it?”

“A simple charm. I’ve no far-reaching magic, and what I do have only revolves around Words. My mother’s father was a Spellmaker. He taught me small tricks for my pleasure. This one won’t hide that we are speaking to each other, but it will make it so that our words are indistinct and indistinguishable to anyone but ourselves.”

“Useful,” Derek conceded, despite his discomfort around magic in general. “So, now you have me to yourself, what story is it that you wish to tell?”

“I am apprenticed to the host of a talk-back wireless show. I can make even the least forthcoming interviewee bare their soul,” Stilinski paused again, “as long as I shut-up long enough for them to answer the question they’ve been asked.”

Derek laughed, it wasn’t difficult to imagine answering all of Stilinski’s questions, just as it wasn’t difficult to imagine him stealing all the air so that one couldn’t speak. “But, your apprenticeship is new?” It would have to be, or Derek would likely have seen him last year at this ball.

“Yes, thankfully. I have time to learn to stop and take a breath. Time to learn to reign in my tongue. I’d learn much faster with a firm hand at my throat, however.” Derek heard him lick his lips. “Someone to cut me off before I begin, someone to tell me what I can and cannot say and do.” Every word he intoned was dipped in desire. “I need the guidance of someone whose control is close to all-encompassing, someone who values every syllable, and treasures every phrase.”

Stilinski’s voice was caramel and sweet, but dark and divine. Derek breathed in and tasted heavy arousal as much as understood it with his ears. He’d known this young Wordworker for all of ten minutes: he shouldn’t be enjoying his words, he shouldn’t be wanting to hear more, he shouldn’t be waiting to taste them on his tongue. Still he found himself saying, “I believe you would require a firm hand.”

“Yes. Someone who has experience stripping away extra words. Someone who can tighten-up prose and bind against babble. Someone who can tie down meaning with the barest minimum of movement.” Stilinski gripped harder on Derek’s hip. “I think you could do that for me, Derek Hale. I think you could keep me under control. I think you could teach me the balance between restraint and flourish, and help me understand when it’s best to contain myself, and when I deserve to let go.”

Derek swallowed and let himself lean back a little. He was half-hard in his stupidly fitted tuxedo pants, and yes, Stilinski was too. At least they were both, thankfully, wearing the current trend of long waistcoats and jackets. It was an old cliché, the idea that Alpha Wolves liked to dominate their partners in bed, and one often denied amongst the elite of an Echelon. Hearing it dripping from Stilinski's mouth like a molten promise, though, was heating Derek’s core in a way he’d long forgotten. Or perhaps in a way he’d never before considered.

He looked down at the swirling words in Stilinski’s hand, then licked his lips and made himself say over his shoulder, “Your description is inadequate, Stiles Stilinski. You have interested your target audience, yet you need to be far more specific if you want to be understood without confusion.”

Stilinski dropped his hand further down Derek’s side and leaned in closer to Derek’s ear, breath hotter, keener, richer. “As you wish.” He inhaled in a way entirely wolf-like, taking in Derek’s scent and keeping it in his throat. “I need someone who would spank me for each word out of line, mark me up till their handprint was as red on my ass as your eyes. Someone to cage me, keep the key around their neck and not let me get hard unless I’d done a good day's work. I need so much instruction, so much discipline, to teach me control. You have that discipline, you have that self-restraint. And in return you’d have all the words of mine I could give whenever you wished them.”

Derek felt a wet, hot tongue edge along the outer shell of his ear. He relented and rolled his hips back, let himself smirk at the moan it extracted from Stilinski’s throat. He couldn’t believe he was allowing this. He couldn’t believe he was considering it.

Yet, he was glad he was wearing the crimson bow tie.

“And where would one start to teach someone that needed such discipline? What would I make your first lesson?”

Stilinski’s ideas began tumbling free, with nothing that could stop them. “For the first lesson I should be stripped naked and put on my knees. Have my arms tied to my sides with my trousers and my shorts stuffed in my mouth to keep me from begging out loud. It would have me fingered open until all I could do was whimper, then my throat fucked so I had no chance to speak. Then, if I could take everything I was given without gagging, perhaps I could be rewarded by my Teacher coming down my throat. He could take his time and edge me until he was hard again and I was leaking come instead of words. Hold my mouth open with his fingers and ride me until he came on my cock. And once he was spent, once he’d come twice or more and had his rightful fill, then with one word, he could tell me to come and I would. I mean,” he took another deep breath, and the hand holding Derek’s hip withdrew, “if that was amenable, of course. I’d do better to remember who was the Teacher and who the student.”

Derek could feel his length starting to weep, his balls pulling higher, his ass clenching at the thought. “A good,” he paused on the word, the title, trying it out for suitability, “Teacher takes into account the needs of his student. But the student needs to take into account the requirements of the Teacher. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Stilinski’s voice was soft again, and he was holding himself taut at Derek’s back, as if there were more words that wanted to be free of his chest, but he was keeping desperately within.

“I’m going to turn around now so I can see this student, Stiles Stilinski, and you are going to stay still, but keep those words spinning in your hand.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Derek shuddered at title. That’s what he’d choose. Yet he thought he could accept the affectations of Teacher and student if it suited Stilinski’s needs.

Especially now that he could see Stilinski as well as smell and hear him. The man was wearing a scarlet cape with the hood pulled high, as well as a bow tie that matched Derek’s own. His suit was not quite black, and not quite matte; it and the shirt beneath it shimmering with a slight amethyst tint, matching the darker, filigree mask on Stilinski’s striking face.

Striking, stunning, staggering. His burnt-sugar eyes matched the sweet and thick of his voice and were just a shade or two lighter than his closely cut hair. His cheekbones were high and as sharp as Derek expected the man’s wit to be. They were of a height, and Derek could imagine it simple to lean forward and pilfer a kiss. Although, given the look on Stilinski’s face, it would be less theft and more giving of a gift.

Derek licked his lower lip and took delight in seeing Stilinski track the movement. He then rubbed his lips together and said, “that description is more than adequate, and your quick revisions are laudable. You would appear to be a fast learner. I wonder if you would need a Teacher for more than a short time, or…” He probably wouldn’t say no to one night with a man like this, but Derek wasn’t one to simply play. He’d given up such dalliances a long time ago, even before the troubles he had. He hoped that Stiles Stilinski’s bold approach meant that he was after more than just one, well, lesson. If Derek was to dabble, he’d like to Court, and he’d like to do it properly.

Stilinski blinked, licked his own lips and said quietly, “I am a quick learner, in most things. This however, I don’t think I’d conquer overnight, Derek Hale.” He dipped his head slightly and looked out from underneath the curlicues of his mask. “It might take weeks, months, or…”

There was a hint of hope, ambition, anticipation to his words, but also that apprehension again.

“An attempt at long-term... study would be preferable,” Derek said. “I’d have you call me just Derek, though, outside of lessons.”

“And I am Stiles. It’s a nickname, but my actual one is a mouthful that while I’m sure any Wordworker could handle, I prefer not to hear.” He tipped his head back and to the side, then lifted a hand to slip back his hood. He was certainly stunning, and Derek suspected he knew exactly what he was doing by presenting his throat like that to a Wolf.

“I,” Derek started, unsure of how to express what he needed to, but certain he should. It was harder than usual to say what he wanted with Stiles’ neck bared and his heart rate soaring. “There is a coffee house not far from here, Stiles. While I’m keen for us to begin your lessons, I...,” he definitely didn’t want Stiles to think they were making a simple sexual-contract, “I’d also like to hear more of your story. There’s much for me to learn, too. I’d like it very much if you’d allow me the honor of buying you a late night supper.”

Stiles’ mouth grew wide, stretching into a full smile. He recognized the phrasing as something traditional, something that spoke of Courting instead of just playing. “As long as I can then buy you breakfast, Derek.” Derek’s own heart sped up at that worried that Stiles hadn’t actually understood. Stiles smirked. “I assure you I can keep talking for hours. If the coffee house doesn’t do pancakes and bacon, I’m sure we can find somewhere that does.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> There is no actual sex in this fic, but there is discussion and description of it.
> 
> This piece was beta-read by **ThisNewJoe** and their red/blue pencil. It was tweaked after, however. All and any mistakes and stupidities are entirely my own. 
> 
> Find [Toxin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Toxin/) [artist] on Tumblr at [ghost-of-erica-reyes](http://ghost-of-erica-reyes.tumblr.com).  
> Find [LupusScintilla (Clandestinux)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Clandestinux/pseuds/LupusScintilla) [author] on Tumblr at [inkandblade](http://inkandblade.tumbr.com).  
> Find [ThisNewJoe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisNewJoe/) [Beta Reader] on Tumblr at [thisnewjoe](https://thisnewjoe.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Part of the [Sterek Reverse Bang 2017](http://sterekreversebang.tumblr.com/); without the image there'd be no fic. Please take the time to have a look through the other art on their tumblr!


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